22 XII 1957 Toss out the superhuman, endure the collapse of all certitudes painfully acquired these past years…
On the 18th of the month, the death of my father. I do not know, but I think I will cry some other time. I am so absent from myself that I do not even have the strength of a regret, so low that I can raise myself neither to memory nor to remorse.
To perceive the part of unreality in everything, an unimpeachable sign that one advances toward reality…
Mystic feeling of my indignity and my decline.